Queen of the Eastern Seas
by janiejanine
Summary: An Isabela character study: one ficlet for each letter of the alphabet.
1. A is for Acquisition

_What do you want? _Zevran asked once, during a massage, when she was too relaxed to guard her answers. _I don't know_, she'd replied, realizing in that moment that no one had ever asked her that before. She'd gone quiet, pondering, and Zevran hadn't pressed.

_I want to see what's beyond this house._

_I want you to touch me, more, there._

_I want to drink myself silly just because I can._

_I want something that's _mine_._

_I want._

Now, she focuses on what she _has_.

Isabela weighs her options as she surveys her husband's - no, _her_ quarters. They're cramped in the way that usually makes her twitch, like her mother's tiny hovel or the dark, oppressive rooms of the house in town. But here, sunlight streams through the windows, and when she opens the door, there's nothing but the blue expanse of the sea.

The ship creaks and rolls under her feet. She closes her eyes and inhales, breathing in salt and seaweed and musty timbers.

_What do you want?_

Finally, she knows.


	2. B is for Boots

The second Isabela spots the boots, tucked behind a stack of pots in a nondescript shop in Nevarra, she knows they're meant to be hers. She crosses the floor in a few long steps and grabs them, clutching them to her chest as though another sexy, stylish pirate is going to appear out of nowhere and snatch them away. Slowly, reverently, she slides them on.

The only looking glass in the shop is propped nearby. She preens in front of it, examining her reflection from every angle. The mirror is smudged, covered in the dust and grime of years of service, but it can't hide the gleam of the buckles or the sheen of the leather.

The boots fit perfectly, buttery Antivan leather caressing her skin, clinging to her like wet sand molds to a bare foot. The soles are grippy, perfect for striding about a slippery deck. And they're so _tall_, reaching up to mid-thigh. They're _perfect_. She won't even have to wear pants.


	3. C is for Chains

Isabela checks her compass. Conditions are perfect; days like this were made for sailing. The winds are favorable and she's right on schedule, making good time. The sl-

The _goods_, she corrects herself hastily, should keep just fine. Castillon will be happy. Maybe she can even squeeze a bonus out of him for speed.

The sound of clanking chains rises from the hold, audible over the crash of the waves and the shrieks of the sea birds.

It's cargo, she reminds herself. No different than a shipment of stolen silks, or lyrium, or commandeered treasures.

She doesn't ask questions. Her crew doesn't, either, as long as she's quick in paying out their shares.

_It's just business._

That pragmatism has served her well, made good coin and kept her ship under her feet. _Just business. _Jobs like this keep her free to work on her own terms.

Isabela knows what it is to be bought and sold.

She grips the wheel and turns it hard, pulling away from her destination before she can change her mind.


	4. D is for Defeat

"Next round," Varric says as Norah sets three more glasses of whiskey on the table. "Go."

They reach for the glasses and toss the drinks back.

"I'm out," Hawke mumbles, eyes unfocused. She's weaving, flopping into laps and slurring affection.

Isabela and Aveline size each other up over the precarious pile of empty glasses in the center of the table. The look in Aveline's eye is not unlike the look one rutting stag gives another, right before charging him, locking horns and knocking his block off.

Isabela gestures with her glass, sloshing whiskey over the edge. "You," she says, peering at Aveline with one eye closed, "You are a...a wall. A wall shaped like a big...a big...manhands."

Slowly, she slides off her chair.

Varric formally declares Aveline the winner. "Impressive," he says.

"It does the men no good if their captain can't outdrink them," Aveline replies. Her voice is calm and steady. She sounds like she should be presiding over a meeting, or having tea with the Viscount.

"No one outdrinks the captain!" Isabela cheers from the floor.

Aveline smiles and raises her glass.


	5. E is for Echoes

Isabela hates the Gallows. It doesn't make her nervous, exactly. More like _uneasy_. The stone walls, weeping damp and crusted with salt, rise so high there's barely any sunlight. The air is full of the emotionless drone of the Tranquil merchants and the pervading smell of must. And, of course, those giant, supplicating statues cast their looming shadows over everything.

Hawke is across the courtyard, arguing with the Knight-Captain, and from the looks of it, it's not going well. Cullen had insisted on a _private_ discussion, giving Isabela and Anders his most pointed look, and so they'd huffily made themselves scarce.

They're wandering aimlessly around the perimeter, trying to look inconspicuous, when they hear it. A crack, a wet thud, a grunt of pain.

Isabela pulls up short. She knows that sound, and from the way Anders stiffens, it's obvious he knows it too.

These things are all too common here, and after the initial surprise she ignores it. But the sound continues, far too long, reverberating down the narrow passageway, and when she glances at Anders he's breathing hard, hands clenched.

She grabs him by the arm and steers him away from the cluster of templars.

"Let's wait somewhere else, hmm?" she says lightly, keeping her grip tight.

He allows her to drag him down the stairs. When they reach the dock, he wrenches himself loose and paces back and forth, fuming. "How can you be so complacent?"

She shrugs. "It's nothing to do with us."

"Those people need _help_."

"Talk to Hawke. She loves to meddle."

"You freed slaves. Doesn't this bother you?" He stops pacing and fixes her with an incredulous look.

"Sticking your neck out only gets you trouble, and not the fun kind," she smirks.

"So we should just sit by and let them suffer?"

She raises an eyebrow. "We're in the middle of the Gallows. Did you have a daring plan in mind?"

"No, I just..." Anders looks away. The anger slowly drains from his face, leaving behind only exhaustion. He lets out a deep breath and scrubs a hand over his eyes. "Someday," he says, "you'll have to choose a side. Everyone will."

Isabela lays her hand on his arm, gently this time, and gazes across the water. "Not today," she replies, and they both fall silent.


	6. F is for Fiction

_"What are we going to do, Hawke? The Qunari are going to tear the city apart!"_

_"There's only one thing we can do," Hawke said solemnly._

_"You mean..." Merrill gasped, putting her hands to her face._

_Hawke nodded. "We have to use The Beard."_

_"We can't! Beard magic is too powerful. It could warp reality itself!"_

_"We don't have a choice. I'm going in."_

_The Arishok stood. His massive muscles flexed and he roared in a show of dominance. Hawke stepped forward. When the Arishok caught sight of his bristly magnificence, he backed down. "You win. We will take ship immediately," he said._

_And the city was saved._

_Afterwards, everyone went for a drink at the Hanged Man to celebrate._

_"That does it, Hawke," Varric said, after a few pints. "We need to decide once and for all who is the manliest."_

_"Fine. My beard vs. your chest. May the best fur win."_

_The two men stood back to back and walked ten paces to opposite sides of the room, then turned and ripped open their coats. Suddenly, there was an explosion, and the room was filled with a cloud of body hair and musk. The women (and some of the men) swooned. The crowd was overcome with a frenzy of lust._

_"This is the _best_ way to celebrate," said Sebastian, who knew all about things like orgies and possibly even more interesting things like Antivan milk sandwiches and was really too sexy to be stuck in the Chantry depriving us all of his fantastic ass._

_"I agree," said Aveline. She grabbed hold of the man next to her, whose sideburns were impressive but not as impressive as Hawke's. He followed her obediently up the stairs, mesmerized by her strongly muscled yet well-shaped thighs._

_There were only three people left: a lanky elf with a big sword, a mage who could do delicious things with electricity, and a sultry, bendy pirate with the most luscious curves this side of Llomerryn. At that moment, the elf and the mage realized that no party was complete without a threesome..._

"I can't stand it anymore. Please stop."

"You made me a _man_?"

"Ooh, she's right, Hawke! You would look marvelous with a beard."

"This is the last time I attend one of your 'dramatic readings'. Were you planning on telling me of my part in this? I had to hear about it from the witch."

"I need to go pray. And yes, I _do_ know what an Antivan milk sandwich is. I am not blushing!"

"This will be all over the barracks. Varric's serials are bad enough without _improvements_. No more, understand?"

"I told you, Rivaini, I can't write myself into my own books. That's just unprofessional."

"Oh, you're all such stick-in-the-muds. I do it out of love."


	7. G is for Gone

Moving carefully, Isabela rises up on one elbow and studies the still form of the man in her bed. Waking him would be a disaster, she'd lose her nerve completely if she had to look him in the face, but she can be silent when she needs to be. These are the last few moments she'll get with him, and she intends to make them count.

Her fingers brush lightly through his hair, thick and dark as her own. _His children are going to be beautiful_. She clamps down hard on that thought.

His face is relaxed in sleep; there's no hint of the smile he wears when he sees her, like all his dreams just came true at once, or the warm, eager look in his eyes, the one he'd had when he'd twined his fingers through hers and said _stay. Marry me._

_No!_ She hadn't realized she'd said it aloud until she'd seen the shadow cross his face. _I'm sorry, I mean...I can't. I just got here. It's too soon._

His hurt look had melted away into a chuckle. _Is that all? Never fear, I'll talk you into it yet_.

Her alarm had turned into full-blown panic. He would. He'd talk her into it, and they'd be blissfully happy until they weren't, and she'd be left with nothing but what-ifs and should-haves.

He'd be content to spend his whole life here, falling into a routine, working until he got too old and his sons took over his trade, dying in bed. He's never left this village. He doesn't know the intoxicating feeling of newfound freedom, of endless possibilities, of the way sounds seem sharper and colors brighter and the whole world full of opportunities waiting for someone brave and clever enough to step up and take them. Like taking the first breath of sweet, cool air after spending a lifetime in a stuffy, windowless room. He'd never understand.

So she'd pretended to calm and indulged herself, falling asleep in his arms one last time.

Now, though, she's awake, and she knows what she has to do. His clothes are flung haphazardly on the floor. She rummages through the pile until she finds it - a scarf, blue edged in gold. Clutching it in one treacherously shaking hand, she turns her back and slips through the door.


	8. H is for Homecoming

After the battle with the Qunari is done, the Arishok vanquished and the city saved, Isabela leaves Kirkwall for good. She's spent too much time there, anyway - it's the longest she's ever stayed in one place, and look where it got her.

She travels, and she sees them everywhere. In Antiva City she meets a sailor with swirling tattoos, not nearly so fine as Fenris'. In Ghislain, at the height of spring, the grass is the same luminous green as Merrill's eyes. And Hawke, Hawke is always there, from the mabari roaming the streets of Highever to the red scarves newly in fashion in Val Royeaux. When she spots a tall ginger-haired woman in the market in Cumberland, and goes so far as to poke her with a teasing greeting before remembering that it couldn't _possibly_ be Aveline, she comes to a realization.

It's time to go home.

She hasn't had a home for twenty years, wasn't looking for one, but somehow she'd acquired one all the same. Just one of those things, she supposes, that grows on you. Like mold.

She has no idea what kind of reception is waiting for her. She's willing to forget the past if they are - after all, as Hawke is so fond of saying in that grandiose way of hers, that's what family does. But then, Hawke's always been fond of hyperbole. She can only hope that, just this once, Hawke wasn't exaggerating.


	9. I is for Isabela

_On the way home on market day, a twelve-year-old girl finds a book lying in the grass. _

_It's bound in limp cloth, dirty and stained from the mud of the road. _The Perils of Isabela_, it's called. It's a tale of daring exploits and dramatic adventures; the heroine travels the world, from city slums to the courts of kings, claiming lovers and fortunes alike with a carefree grace._

_She knows how to read. It's necessary, even for a poor girl. But it's a skill not to be used for pleasure - her mother tells her not to waste good coin on such nonsense. This is the first real book she's ever owned, and it's the first thing she's had that was simply for _fun_. Someday, she's sure, she'll have a life like that. But for now, she's content to live it in her imagination._

_Four years later, she sets off down the road to her new husband's house. She puts dreams of adventure behind her forever._

"Name?"

"What?" she says, startled. She'd studied docking procedures when she'd taken over her ship. She should know what she's doing by now; how could she have forgotten she'd have to register?

The harbormaster rolls his eyes. "Name?" he says again.

She opens her mouth to answer, then stops.

Her name has nothing to do with _her_. The first name was given to her by her mother, the last name forced upon her, like so many other things, by her husband. She needs something different. Something with music. Something with _magic_.

"Isabela," she says, drawing out the syllables, rolling them over her tongue. She flashes a sudden, brilliant smile. "But you can call me _Captain_."

If she's going to start over, she might as well do it right.


	10. J is for Joint Effort

Perhaps it's fate that brings Isabela to the Hanged Man instead of one of the dozens of other filthy taverns that dot Lowtown. It's Lucky who picks it for their meeting, but it's she who falls in love with it, even before she has to wipe the floor with him and his goons. And when she looks up after giving him one last just-in-case kick, she catches the eye of the capable-looking woman with the patched-together armor and the gleaming daggers, and she realizes that the perfect backup just dropped into her lap.

That night, they're ambushed as they move through Hightown, and Hawke instinctively shifts so they're fighting back-to-back. Turns out, their styles are complimentary. When a knife comes at Isabela's blind spot, Hawke reaches out to parry it. When Hawke sweeps a raider's feet out from under him, Isabela ducks to land the killing blow. It's a bit of a relief, in a way. For once, she doesn't have to cover all the angles.

Hawke is an appropriate name, Isabela thinks. Sleek, inscrutable, but still a bird of prey, wielding her blades like talons. Hawke moves with less grace than Isabela does, but she's no less ruthlessly efficient. Isabela makes a mental note to teach her a few duelist's tricks, once they get Hayder sorted out.

A week later, Hawke asks for her help clearing out a warehouse full of thugs. A few days after that, they're hiking up Sundermount searching for herbs. When Isabela finds a lead on the relic, it's only natural that she should ask Hawke to support her. Little by little, she grows used to having an extra fighter or three by her side. It's something she's never had before, but she's come to depend on.

It's not that she didn't trust her old crew, you wouldn't get far on the sea if you didn't, but they were only as loyal as the next share of plunder. This is different: a certainty, deep in her gut, that if she makes a mistake, if she drops her guard, Hawke will be there to pick her up.

She doesn't believe in fate, or much of anything, really. But whether it was destiny or the Maker or just plain luck that brought them together, she'll always be thankful for it. No matter what the future holds in store.


	11. K is for Kraken

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was attacked by a sea monster?" Isabela directs the question to the room in general, even though she knows Merrill will be the one to answer.

"Ooh, it sounds dangerous," says Merrill, right on cue. "Was it a big one?"

Isabela decides to forego the double entendre, just this once. She can make a sacrifice for an attentive audience. "It was. It had tentacles the size of tree trunks, with giant suckers that could attach to a man's face and drag him into the sea. It wrapped itself around my ship and nearly broke it in half."

"And how exactly did you survive?" Fenris asks dryly.

"I used up all my throwing knives, but that just made it angry. So I climbed up on the railing and shouted at it until it stopped bothering my men and came after me." One dramatically-gesturing arm knocks over a stray tankard. Aveline catches it neatly and sets it back on the table.

"Did you talk it to death?" Hawke asks, curling protective fingers around her own glass. Isabela ignores her.

"It kept snapping its beak, trying to snatch me right off the bow. I looked it right in the eye, and I said..."

Anders looks down and coughs "Bullshit!"

"Oh, fine. The creature was actually a man, and when he dropped his trousers, he said 'Release the kraken!' But it was still perilous."

This revelation is met with raised eyebrows and unimpressed looks from around the table. Isabela throws her hands up, conceding defeat.

"Why is it when I do it, it's bullshit, but when Varric does it, it's literature?" she grumbles. "And anyway, I wouldn't talk, Messere Grey Warden Stamina."

"Hey! All of my stories are true," Anders protests. He catches Hawke's eye and mutters "Mostly."

"_Hardly_, you mean," Aveline snorts.

"Well, let's be honest," says Varric. "You're all liars."

Seven heads turn in disbelief. "_Us?_"

Isabela grins. This ought to be good. It's not often that Varric sets himself up so neatly.

She's not offended; she's made her peace with lies. The difference between lies, stories, and embellishments is one of intent, anyway, and she always has the best of intentions. Well, almost always.

She's not the only one who exaggerates, but, she thinks, no one else does it with quite the same flair. All of their adventures sound improbable. If they're already fighting dragons, there's no reason she can't throw in a couple of griffons and some quality smut as well. And if she can get Fenris to crack a smile, or Varric to reach for his quill, or Merrill to favor her with that enchanted starry-eyed look, then it's all worth it.

Some people just don't appreciate art.


	12. L is for Larceny

Hiring an ex-cat burglar was definitely one of the best ideas Isabela's ever had. Robie had been on the run from the Rialto city guard when he'd tried to stow away on her ship. When she'd caught him and found out who he was, she'd forgone punishing him and offered him a spot on her crew in exchange for teaching her some new tricks. Now, after weeks of tutoring, she's eager to try them out.

She pads silently across the courtyard, sticking to the shadows. Whoever landscaped this estate might have done it purely for the convenience of housebreakers. The lawns are dotted with tall, leafy trees and shrubs, and the dim twilight makes it easy for her to slip through the shadows until she reaches the wall of the main house. She shins swiftly up, finding fingerholds in the stone until she reaches the window. She perches on the ledge like an overgrown bird as she concentrates on picking the lock.

Her lessons with Robie have trained her to have patience. "Lockpicking is about trial and error," he always says, and "It'll happen when it's ready. That's why it's called charming the lock, not smashing it."

It's easy to take her time sitting alone in her own cabin; it's quite another thing to do it while squatting halfway up a wall, when someone could happen along at any time. Her palms are starting to sweat, and the picks keep slipping.

Finally, with a muted _click_, the lock springs open. She bites down on a shout of triumph, settling for pumping a celebratory fist in the air.

The celebration is short-lived: the window is stuck. _Why even bother with a bloody lock?_ she thinks, nostrils flaring with annoyance. She pulls at the sash, grunting with the strain, but it won't budge. The branches of the shrubs surrounding the house catch her eye; if she can break off a stick, she might be able to use it to pry the window open. She leans carefully out, hand outstretched. _Almost...almost..._

_Uh-oh._

She leans too far and overbalances, falling facefirst into the hedge.

She scrambles to her feet and quickly checks to make sure no one saw. Luckily, there were no witnesses to her undignified plummet from the window, but there's a pair of guards coming around the corner. _Blast_.

Too late to hide. Brushing the dirt off as best she can, she drapes herself provocatively over a bush. With any luck, they'll be too busy staring down her blouse to notice her hand reaching into the pouch at her belt. The guards spot her and quicken their pace, and she balances on the balls of her feet, waiting for just the right moment.

Soon they're in spitting distance and reaching for her. It's time.

She flings the little package in her hand to the ground, hard enough to make the flimsy cloth burst open. The cloud of dark powder takes the guards by surprise, and Isabela takes off running as they cough and choke on the dust.

It isn't much of a head start. The two men have already recovered and are shouting for reinforcements. She can hear their footsteps pounding behind her as she sprints for the wall, scrambling up and over with all the grace of a drunken mule.

She runs blindly through the unfamiliar city, ducking around corners and praying not to hit any dead ends. The house's isolated setting, so carefully scouted, is no longer in her favor. If she's lucky, she'll find the market, and she'll have plenty of stalls to hide behind. Her lungs feel like they're going to burst. If she manages to get out of this without being arrested, she thinks, maybe she should start running laps around the deck or something.

The guards are never far behind. Once, the one in the lead manages to grab the hem of her shirt, nearly jerking her off her feet. She catches herself and turns, smashing her palm into his nose. He lets out a bellow of rage and pain and lets go.

She's starting to slow down. Her breath is coming in ragged gasps, and her legs have started a steady burn that jolts her with every step. Finally, she turns down a tiny alley, and there, in a shadowy corner, is her salvation. It's not ideal, but needs must.

Taking a deep breath, she dives straight into the pile of refuse. She burrows in and curls up, nearly vibrating with the effort of keeping still, as the pacing feet and raised voices float around her.

After an interminable wait, the voices disappear, and she's able to dig herself out. As she picks bits of garbage out of her clothes, she takes stock of herself. She's exhausted. Smelly. Covered in old food and slime and Maker knows what else. Sporting a patchwork of bruises and scrapes. Worst of all, she hadn't even managed to get into the house.

_Nonsense_, she thinks. She may have been in a sticky situation, but she'd gotten out of it, hadn't she? She'd picked the lock. The powder pouches worked perfectly. And, when it came down to it, the guards couldn't keep up with her. Turns out, she's pretty good at this thieving business, even if she's technically come up empty-handed.

Or rather, _almost_ empty-handed. Rummaging in her cleavage, she produces the coin pouch she'd lifted from the head guard, right after she'd broken his nose. Maybe that will teach him not to grab strange women, whether he's trying to arrest them or not.

She pours the coins into her hand. To her surprise, there's quite a few. Enough, perhaps, to buy herself something shiny. Perfect. All in all, she has to call this evening a success.


	13. M is for Misgivings

_There's nowhere left to run. The rough stone of the wall scrapes her back and she scrabbles for her knife, clutching it in a shaking grip as he closes in. She can't even get a clear picture of him, just flashes, impressions of massive height, a drunken grin, grasping hands._

_Her dagger opens his gut like it's foam instead of flesh, sliding smoothly in up to the hilt quicker than she can blink. She rips the blade free and the wound gapes like a mouth, spilling a gush of blood over her hand, and it's hot, so hot it's steaming in the cold night air. She's so surprised, she almost laughs. Who would have thought it would be this easy?_

_Everything tastes metallic, steel in her hand, iron tang of blood in her teeth. She tries to spit it out but it keeps coming, fills her lungs, flows over the rough stone of the street, pooling between the cobbles, and she falls, choking on the thick dark stream._

Isabela wakes with a strangled gasp. The blackness of her bedroom feels like a live, smothering thing; she reaches out with unsteady fingers and lights the lamp, banishing the darkness so she can breathe again.

So many years gone, and she can feel it still, the stink of the alley, the spatter of blood on her arms, the look of shock on his face, mirroring her own. Her first kill, and she hadn't even known his name. It had given her nightmares for months afterward.

She doesn't have those dreams anymore. When had she become so comfortable with death?

She shakes her head. She's unsettled, that's all, still disturbed by the sight of Bethany lying unconscious and helpless in the dirt, and Hawke standing over her, bargaining for her life. _Idiot_, she chides herself. _Are you a Seer, now, with such faith in dreams?_

She lies back on the bed and closes her eyes, but she can't shake the sick, half-awake feeling that something terrible is coming, borne from the east like a plague wind.

No use trying to go back to sleep. She'll go down to the bar for a drink.

Things will look better in the morning.


	14. N is for Not Yet

Every once a while, Hawke asks about the shipwreck, and Isabela makes up a story.

_A sea serpent attacked us and we ran aground_, she says, or _my first mate mutinied, and I threw him overboard myself, but we'd already hit the reef. _They've made a game of it. She's almost forgotten the truth, and the truth is in the past anyway, so who cares? The future is a new ship, wind in her hair as Kirkwall shrinks behind her.

If she'd been planning to stay, maybe it would be important. But she isn't, so it's not.

Luck will turn in her favor soon. When the opportunity comes, she'll be ready.

* * *

><p>The qunari have moved into Lowtown. Isabela tries not to think about it, until the day comes when she doesn't have a choice—Hawke's going to see the Arishok, and she wants her by her side.<p>

She _can't_ go. If any of them recognize her—

The qunari are secretive, but she's heard stories. She's seen what they do to their mages, and that's just from fear of what _might_ happen. What would they do to someone who'd _definitely_ stolen from them?

Probably they're here for other reasons. They wouldn't stay for years just for a stupid book—would they?

Her steps grow heavier as they near the compound. "You'll have to get along without me today," she says, finally, with a disarming grin. "Impossible, I know."

"Why?"

"I have…other plans." She cocks an eyebrow.

"Ah," Hawke says. "Do tell him I said hello."

Isabela waggles her fingers goodbye and saunters down the steps.

* * *

><p>At long last, everything has gone spectacularly tits up. The secret is out, and Isabela needs to leave <em>now<em>, while she still can.

It's too late to stay. There would be so many questions—_why didn't you _say_anything? How could you keep something like this from us? From _me_?_—and she'd never be able to answer them. Hawke, with her eternal optimism, would think it could be fixed. Isabela, however, deals in reality, and she knows it can't.

Hasn't Kirkwall been taking care of itself for hundreds of years? The city—Hawke—they don't need her. She doesn't need them. This place has been an anchor for too long.

She scribbles a note and tucks it under Sam's belt. Even if Hawke doesn't see the paper, she'll notice the shiny silver buckle. The woman is a magpie.

Her throat burns and she swallows hard.

_No regrets._

She tucks the book under her arm, and she doesn't look back.


End file.
